


we have ten seconds

by iron_spider



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: BAMF Peter Parker, Gen, No Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Spoilers, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-18 17:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19338952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iron_spider/pseuds/iron_spider
Summary: The Iron Man suit is open about fifteen feet away from them, arms extended like a prolonged invitation to hug. Tony sits, hands gripping the chair he’s been placed in, and he keeps having the inclination to tap his foot. Not for any want of dancing. He’s not fucking drunk, and there’s no music. It’s nerves setting in, racing from the base of his skull down to the tips of his toes, fraying off into his close surroundings and gathering around Peter Parker’s working hands.Tony’s nerves aren’t for himself. Death is like his shadow, the possibility of it tapping him on the shoulder like little jokes in a high school hallway. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want to meet it, but he knows, for him, it could be looming around any corner. No, Tony’s nerves are for the kid. The kid trying to deactivate a bomb.And then the kid saysshitand Tony’s nerves rocket sky high.





	we have ten seconds

The Iron Man suit is open about fifteen feet away from them, arms extended like a prolonged invitation to hug. Tony sits, hands gripping the chair he’s been placed in, and he keeps having the inclination to tap his foot. Not for any want of dancing. He’s not fucking drunk, and there’s no music. It’s nerves setting in, racing from the base of his skull down to the tips of his toes, fraying off into his close surroundings and gathering around Peter Parker’s working hands.

Tony’s nerves aren’t for himself. Death is like his shadow, the possibility of it tapping him on the shoulder like little jokes in a high school hallway. He doesn’t want it, he doesn’t want to meet it, but he knows, for him, it could be looming around any corner. No, Tony’s nerves are for the kid. The kid trying to deactivate a bomb.

And then the kid says _shit_ and Tony’s nerves rocket sky high.

“What?” Tony asks, trying to peer around and look at the top of Peter’s head. He’s all bright blues and reds in here—here, which is sewer and dripping and black mold concrete. They’re in what looks like a World War II bunker if it was built into the subway line, except there’s what looks like an exit just behind the suit, standing there like that. If he could only fucking get to it. 

“Nothing,” Peter says. “Totally cool, we’re good.”

“We’re not _good_ ,” Tony says, that inclination to start tapping his foot in a panic returning tenfold. But his limbs are asleep, legs worse than arms, and it’s pins and needles everywhere. He’s been sitting here for too long, and shit’s about to get real. “We’re fifty leagues from good. I’m strapped to a chair—”

“—you are not strapped to a chair, you’re just sitting in a chair—”

“—I am metaphorically strapped to a chair because I cannot get out of said chair without the goddamn bomb going—okay, I’m _sitting_ in a chair with a bomb _strapped_ to _it_ , triggered to go off if I get up. Good? Better syntax for Spider Spell Check?”

“Way better and like, way more accurate,” Peter says. Tony looks down at him again just in time to see Peter grin up at him. The grin, somehow, sets off a few tripwires in Tony’s head, and he must have a wild, horrified expression on his face or something, because Peter balks. “What? Calm down. We still have ten seconds.”

A heart attack. All the blood drained from his body. Ripped limb from limb. “We—we have—”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding,” Peter says, and looks away from him before Tony can breathe fire. “It’s still...it's still counting down. Three minutes and forty-eight seconds. I actually don’t think it’s triggered to go off immediately if you get up, I think—I think it might do a quick five second countdown before it blows up. Looks like it, from the way the numbers twitch when you move too much. So we’re good.”

“You’re the worst,” Tony says. “Is this how you always do it? Is this how you embody Spider-Man from day to day? Pretending life-threatening situations are no big deal?”

“Yeah,” Peter says. “Oh yeah. Like that time I almost got shot? I was just pretending I was playing this arcade game, Twist and Block—”

“Oh my God,” Tony breathes.

“I brought you there!” Peter exclaims, probably too loud for someone who is trying to disable a bomb. “Remember? You didn’t like all the neon lights. I think you played that game.”

Tony sighs, closing his eyes tight. Peter could pull the wrong damn wire and kill himself. Tony knows the kid is smart, knows the kid deals with shit like this a lot, has probably seen a bomb before, but he doesn’t know if he’s ever had to disable one. They don’t know shit about the asshole that set this whole cat and mouse game up, and Tony opens his eyes again, looks at the suit. He knows it could withstand the blast. 

This is a damn game. Purposeful, chess pieces arranged just so.

“You said they were all black, right? The wires?” Tony asks.

Peter hums to himself. “Maybe a grayish color? Definitely more grayish.”

“Semantics, Parker.”

“I’ve seen a few devices like this before,” Peter says. “That lizard guy—”

“Lizard Guy could not make something like this and knock both of us the hell out while setting his plan in motion,” Tony says.

“He had a lot of passion,” Peter says. “You know, for his, uh, craft.”

“Don’t describe the villains as passionate,” Tony says, shaking his head. He squeezes the arms of the chair and feels like such a goddamn idiot. He’s the reason why the kid is here. He’s only been working with Spider-Man publicly for a little while now, and people are already pegging the connection. Realizing that Peter will do anything to make sure Tony doesn’t die, consequences for himself be damned.

Why are they both like that? Doesn’t it cancel out, in some way? Shouldn’t one override the other? Tony should be able to demand the kid go home, let him deal with it on his own. He’s older, he’s more experienced. He should be able to make those calls. But he knows it’s useless—Peter would just look at him, raise his eyebrows, and continue on with his own plans. Because that’s how Peter is. No Iron Asshole left behind.

“I don’t think it’s possible to defuse it,” Tony says. “I think he made it that way on purpose. He knows us both, he knows we can do this kinda shit, and from what I’m hearing and what you’re seeing, this isn’t a normal bomb.”

“What’s a normal bomb?”

“Peter.”

Peter sighs. “Yeah,” he says, drawing out the word. “Yeah, I...I think you’re right. Because I unplugged what should have been the power source and it’s still counting down.”

Tony’s heart constricts. “Yeah? The thick wire?”

“Yeah,” Peter says, and Tony can see him shift a little out of the corner of his eye. “The one in the middle should come next, should be like the proverbial red wire, but it—when I start to take it out, the numbers shift, kind of—looks like it might set it off right away. Like full tilt zero, boom.”

Tony tries to think fast, tries to sift through viable options. “You said...if I get up, you think it’ll do a five second countdown?”

“I think so,” Peter says. “When you moved too much earlier it did that quick twitch but reverted back as soon as you were back in place. Looked like five seconds on the clock.”

The corner of Tony’s mouth twitches and he looks around, traces over all the details in the room. If this could be called a room. There’s no goddamn exit save for the one behind the suit, and five seconds—if Peter’s right about that, if they actually get five seconds and not instant, explody death, they still probably wouldn’t be able to make it to safety behind that wall. 

But the suit. Standing there, arms wide open.

It feels ridiculously set up, down to the shitty ass bomb that clearly can’t be diffused, the suit ready for him to get in it. 

Or...someone. Ready for _someone_ to get in it.

“Okay, I’m gonna figure this out,” Peter says, and he moves, the first signs of nervousness rising up in his voice. The same nerves that have been plaguing Tony since all this bullshit started. Jumping from him to Peter like a virus. “Just, gimme a couple—well, okay, you’re not in charge of the timeframe here—”

“I have an idea,” Tony says, trying to plan for their upcoming moments in crackling freeze frames in his head. Only the good scenarios. Only the ones where things turn up right in the end. He tries to swat the nerves away.

“Awesome, we need one of those.”

“I want you to go over to the suit and get inside of it,” Tony says. “You’re already coded to it—”

“Wait, really?”

“Yes,” Tony says, drawing out the word. “I need you to—”

“No, I’m coded to the suit?” Peter asks. He’s looking up at Tony again, incredulously, brows furrowed like he doesn’t actually believe him.

Tony doesn’t have time for embarrassment. “Yes, I—plan ahead, for when shit goes south, especially when shit goes south and you’re involved. Grill me later, yeah?”

Peter nods at him, seemingly biting back a smile, and he doesn’t say anything else. He turns, sits on the ground, one hand resting on the arm of the chair close to Tony’s elbow.

“Now, I’m banking on the fact that we’re gonna have five seconds,” Tony says. He locks eyes with Peter, tries to ignore the slow but still too fast clicking on the bomb. “How sure are you?”

“Pretty sure,” Peter says. “From what I saw, yeah.”

Tony swallows hard, listening to the waver of the kid’s voice. He’s not sure, and Tony can’t really expect him to be sure, and he prays, God, he prays that some low level lunatic isn’t the one to send him to his grave. But nothing’s gonna happen to Peter. That he’s gonna make sure of.

“Okay,” he says, building a monument to five seconds in his head and hoping that’s enough to make it true. “Okay, you’re gonna get in the suit. You’re gonna come over here, we’re gonna do our own little countdown, then you’re gonna grab me, and fly us both to safety right over there behind that wall. Hopefully it’s a way out.” 

Tony motions to it with his head, then meets Peter’s eyes again. “Boot repulsors have a real kick—pardon the pun, focus up, Parker—and Friday’s definitely still active with the suit like that, she’s probably already mapped out our trajectory from the chair to our spot behind the wall over there. I think—these walls can withstand a blast. Suit definitely can.”

“So I just need to cover you,” Peter says, his throat bobbing. “And...move really fast.”

Tony tries to read his mind. “I don’t want to put too much on you—”

“Mr. Stark, I do more dangerous things in gym class—”

“God, I need to call that school—”

“No, I mean. I can do it. I can.”

Tony looks at him for what feels like a long moment. “Suit is primarily for your safety, because I know you won’t leave and let me try to get into it on my own.”

Peter’s eyes flash angry, and he stands up, looking down at Tony. “You’d never make it.”

“Never say never.”

“No,” Peter says. “Me in the suit is better. Me in the suit makes more sense.” He walks over towards it, and looks back at Tony. “Of course I wouldn’t leave. You’re crazy.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“You’re crazy _and_ stubborn.”

Tony sighs. “Okay, let’s do it before I lose all feeling in my legs.”

Peter points over to him. “Another reason why you can’t do it on your own. Pins and needles, remember that time you collapsed moving from the couch to the—”

“Okay, spiderling, memory lane’s too long when a bomb’s involved,” Tony says, clearing his throat. 

He tries not to think about their plan too hard. Peter will be safe. He’ll be safe. That’s what really matters here.

Peter backs up towards the suit, a mix of excitement and trepidation on his face. “What do I do?” he asks. “Just put my arms out?”

“And step up,” Tony says, watching him.

“Okay,” Peter says, tentatively. He looks down at his feet, holds his arms out, overextending his fingers like some warped version of jazz hands. Tony doesn’t laugh at him, because he promises himself he’ll be able to laugh about it later. 

Peter watches as he steps up with his right foot, then his left, and once he’s clear, the suit closes around him. The last thing Tony sees is Peter’s surprised eyes, and then the faceplate closes. And the suit stands stagnant. 

Tony waits. He narrows his eyes. Waits some more.

“Uh, Peter?” Tony asks. “You in there? Did the suit consume you?”

Another brief silence, and then a loud gasp. The suit stumbles forward a little bit, arms falling down to a more normal position. “Oh my God, Mr. Stark,” Peter’s voice says. He turns his hands over, looks at them. “Wow. Okay.”

“You good?” Tony asks. 

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Peter says. The suit stands on uneasy feet. “Okay.”

“Friday know what to do?” Tony asks. He tries to ignore the way his heart speeds up, worry pumping in his blood. Nerves like electric shocks.

“Yeah, she’s got it,” Peter says. 

His voice sounds weird coming from the suit, but Tony doesn’t comment on it, because he knows they need to get this done. He nods, and Peter walks over, stops right in front of him. Iron Man stares down at Tony Stark and yeah, it’s one hundred percent weird whenever someone else is in the suit, absolutely. Peter Parker is now a member of an exclusive club. Something else to tell him later. 

“Tony,” Peter says.

Tony isn’t really used to Peter using his first name. It definitely amps up the nerves, even though he’s sure Peter intended for it to have the opposite effect. 

The kid keeps talking. “It’s gonna be okay. We’re gonna—it’s gonna be fine.”

Tony nods at him, manages a smile. “Definitely,” he says. “No doubts, not here, not me.”

“Okay,” Peter says. He leans over, and hooks his arms under Tony’s, and Tony braces his hands on the suit’s shoulders. “Okay, uh—you count,” Peter says.

“Okay,” Tony says, hoping to God this isn’t it. Isn’t that moment where his heart stops, where he’s ripped to shreds, languishing in death throes that’ll traumatize the kid for life. 

He makes himself squash those thoughts, and puts his trust in Peter Parker. The kid is gonna get him home. 

“Okay, ready?” Tony asks.

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Okay,” Tony says, not thinking of the bomb, of the danger, of that shadow hanging around his throat. He only thinks of the future. “Okay, one. Two. Three.”

He feels Peter lift him up out of the chair, the pins and needles racing up and down his legs. He grimaces, holding onto the suit for dear life, and hears the bomb let out a high pitched sound. Peter activates the repulsors as the beeping speeds up, gets louder, and they shoot forward, crashing down behind the wall just as the blast goes off. 

It’s a wave of gargantuan sound and energy, and pieces of the chair fly every which way. 

Tony feels the reverberations as they hit the wall, and he hears a new leak spring somewhere, a spray of water. Rocks tumbling, falling, and for a second he worries the whole damn place is gonna cave in. Peter is completely covering him, cold metal everywhere, and Tony pops one eye open once all the noise and movement stops. 

His hearing is muted, but he can hear Peter’s voice calling to him.

“Tony! Are you okay?” Peter asks. “Are you okay?”

“Uh, seems that way,” Tony says. He can still barely feel his legs, but he can’t discern any major injuries. No bleeding. He’s just a little dizzy.

“Friday,” Peter says. “Uh—stats on the—surroundings, can we—can we get out? Are we good to move?”

He’s quiet, listening to Friday’s response. “Okay,” Peter says, finally. He moves back, and the faceplate flips open. “Can you walk? You were sitting for like, a really long time. And we just evaded an explosion, so...there’s that.”

They did it. They _did it_. Tony’s elation covers up his nerves, softens their edges.

“Sure I can, Iron Man,” Tony says, grinning at him.

“Um, please.”

Peter helps him to his feet, and the walls are still crackling, dust and debris falling. 

“Okay,” Tony says, flexing his toes in his shoes. “Stay in the suit for now, just in case. Let’s get the hell out of here and find this asshole. Though, how we’re gonna do that, I’ve got no goddamn clue.”

Peter keeps one metal arm around Tony’s waist, the faceplate snapping back down. “Oh, I totally snapped a tracker on that guy before he knocked us out, I just gotta give Friday the codes.”

Tony’s heart does a little leap, and he beams at Peter. Well, Iron Man Peter. “Yeah, you’re—you make a pretty good partner, kid. Gonna give Rhodey a run for his money.”

“Ah, I’m definitely telling him that,” Peter says, as they turn a corner.

“I’ll deny it.”

“I’m totally recording everything right now.”

Tony snorts. “Typical,” he says. “Okay, let’s go get the dickhead who trapped me in a goddamn bomb chair.”

“Yes,” Peter says. “And on the way you can tell me what other tech I’m coded to. Jets? Oh! Do I have a special lab somewhere I can get into?”

“You’re just gonna have to see,” Tony says. “Process of elimination.”

The kid groans, and they follow the trickling water out of wherever the hell they are.


End file.
